Z is for Zombies
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: People deal with the end of the world in various ways. One of them is to throw sanity to the wayside and engage in battle royale matches.


**Z is for Zombies**

It was funny how people dealt with the end of the world.

Take this form of apocalypse for instance – a giant storm occurs that turns 98% of the world's populations into zombies, that are set on devouring and/or tearing apart the remaining 2%. This is while the storm's still going, with purple rain being dropped by purple clouds that have the unfortunate side effect of burning your skin off. There's no way to explain the storm, let alone stop it, and while dealing with the undead is technically possible, it's only a short-term solution. There's probably more undead than bullets in the world right now. So when you look at the remaining 2%, keep in mind that not everyone is going to be able defend themselves, and that the ranks of the living are added to the ranks of the dead, and… yeah. World's kinda fucked.

So what do people do in the midst of all that? Well, some people give up then and there. Some pray to Gods, or gods, or whatever other form of divine intervention they wish to come their way. Some don't pray, and see the apocalypse _as_ divine intervention, punishing humanity for sins ranging from murder to talking too loudly in the cinema. And some people decide that they're not going quietly into the night, and after quoting Dylan Thomas extensively, arm themselves up and go zombie hunting.

She'd done that for awhile. She'd worked with a robot named Ray, who aside from putting her on hold one too many times, had been a pretty good support bot. Like, someone to talk to, even if Ray was doing most of the talking. And then there was her controller – silent guy, didn't talk at all, but he'd kept her alive out in the field. Back when she'd been trying to save the world and all that. Back when she'd still had hope. Back when she could kick ass and take names in places like the Durrr Burger and believe that "hey, maybe this'll work out."

Boy have times changed.

She reflects on this as she lingers round the edge of the storm front, her sights trained not for the undead, but the living. Some people…some people's way of dealing with the end of the world is _weird_. Like, she gets the concept – world's gone to hell, you'll be dead soon, so throw morality and restraint to the wayside and live like it's your last day on Earth (which it probably is). But some bright spark decided that having battle royales is a rad way to spend your time, and lots of people followed that spark. Airdropping into a battle zone and killing each other while a storm front advances, zombies included. Last man (or woman) standing, get all the loot, get all the glory, help reduce the world's remaining 2% far quicker than shambling corpses can.

And God damn it, she's joining in. You can't save the world alone. And while she's loathe to quote a film like _Justice League_ (it wasn't that bad, just painfully average), if there's one man that spandex-wearing weirdos have taught her while fighting other spandex-wearing weirdos, it's that when superheroes say something, you pay attention. Especially in a world where there's no heroes left, where the living kill each other with abandon, and where the greatest enemy is codenamed "PUBG" (how do you pronounce that? Pug-gee? Pubgg?) Which may be an acronym rather than a codename, but damn if she knows what it is. All she knows is that she's looking down a sniper rifle for poor saps to shoot. People she might have fought alongside in a slightly less shit world, but, well, apocalypse now. This is the end, without any friends, and at this rate, someone will be playing _Flight of the Valkyries_.

"Drop your weapon."

Or…that, she supposes.

"Now."

The voice is coming from behind her. That's odd, because people don't usually talk to each other in these battle royales. If they talk at all, it's usually shouting obscenities ranging from "noob" to "newb" (yes, those are two different things), to…well, best not go there. But, sure, okay, whatever. She turns around. And stares.

"Got a live one."

These guys (and they are _guys_ , their full body armour and helmets can't obscure that) aren't like the usual weirdos that she plays with. They're taller. More muscular. More… _real_ , she supposes – all four of them. Like they belong to a different world, or different era. Something that she's seen before…

"Name?" tall, dark, and muscular asks her.

"Ramirez."

"Surname?"

"That is my surname dumbass."

"First name?"

She shrugs. "Dunno. Don't care. I…"

She trails off. She doesn't know why she doesn't know what her first name is (does anyone here have more than a single name? She can't be sure), but that doesn't matter nearly as much as the realization as to who these guys are.

"You're Black Ops," she whispers.

They stand there – decked out in high-tech gear, carrying high-tech weapons…not too high-tech, she notices. Before the storm hit, there was this retro movement and, well, long story. Multiple games worth of story actually.

"What are you doing?" Black Ops 1 says.

She shrugs. "Dealing with the end of the world."

"Like this?" Black Ops 2 asks.

"Everyone else is." She stands up as straight as she can, even if she's dwarfed by the four super troopers before her. "What are _you_ doing? Shouldn't you be doing something, I dunno, constructive?"

"Constructive?" asks Black Ops 3.

"Yeah." She wishes she knew their names, but she supposes that at the end of the day (or night), that doesn't matter. "Like, fighting bad guys, saving the world…" She doesn't say that that's what she used to do, but-

"Just battle royales for us now," says 1.

"And zombies," adds 2.

"Really? That's it? Shouldn't you be waging a campaign against-"

"Nup," says 4, finally speaking up. 4, who looks more high tech than 1 and 2, but not as high tech as 3. "Just those things."

"…right."

She supposes she can't complain. She's wasting her time at the end of the world as well. But still, these guys are super soldiers. Best of the best. The guys who practically invented zombie slaying. WWII. The Cold War. The 2020s when drone warfare was a thing. The 2060s when…actually, she's not really sure what happened then, shit got kinda weird. But hey, robots fighting robots, which led to the development of more friendly robots like Ray, and-

"Anyway," Black Ops 1 says. "Gotta go. Zombies to kill."

"Right…" Rodriguez gives them a half-hearted wave as they turn around and head off, 4 leading the way. "Don't let me stop you."

They don't stop, and she makes no attempt to slow them down. They enter the purple rain, which doesn't seem to affect them. They shoot the zombies that come their way, all of which are becoming way more aggressive, and some of which are dressed like Nazis for some reason. She'd follow them and ask why, but she doesn't want to be killed by acid rain, and besides, that storm front is getting pretty close.

So, back to the battle. Back to twilight. Back to night, to fight, in a world where nothing is right, where the lights have long gone off, and Durrr Burger or otherwise, she really wants a bite.

 _Dylan Thomas, eat your heart out_. She lines up her sights and shoots some poor smuck, returning his body to the earth.

 _And you._

On the other side of the storm front, she can hear yells coming from the Black Ops team, but she pays them no heed and keeps ahead of the storm.

They're all complaining about noobs anyway.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _So lo and behold,_ Black Ops 4 _has joined the battle royale craze, casting singleplayer to the side in the process. Sigh..._

 _Anyway, drabbled this up._


End file.
